


Red Dead Rambles

by Omnibard



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Drabbles, unrelated AUs, unrelated one-shots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2021-01-03 14:07:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21180692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Omnibard/pseuds/Omnibard
Summary: Just a simple collection of unreleated one-shots, drabbles, and AUs, most of which came as requests out of Tumblr, others are random plot-bunnies I snared (or snared me)





	1. ”Idealism and Pragmatism for Beginners II“

**Author's Note:**

> (”Idealism and Pragmatism for Beginners II“ gave me this random drabble… not even enough to call it a one-shot, and it’s completely disconnected from the rest of Thieves in timeline…)
> 
> (uh… minor spoilers for that mission?)  
[posted first [here](https://mtraki.tumblr.com/post/183677464179/a-random-unrelated-drabble?is_related_post=1) ]

After seeing off Mr. Fellowes’s coach, the outlaw mounted Slim who had obediently followed them the short distance he’d been on board. Turning back toward town, that was when he saw the woman on the silver buckskin thoroughbred.

He’d tamed and broken that horse for that woman.

“You,” He announced as Slim strode up to meet them, “ain’t supposed to be out here by yerself.”

“Fortunately for both of us, then, I’m _not_ by myself.” She smiled at him.

So damn clever…

“You know what I mean.” He chastised anyway, even though his heart wasn’t in it and he knew she knew it.

“You know what I _want_ to know, though, Mister Morgan?” She asked while her fingers stroked through the long dark mane of her mount, “Why did I just see you dangle the Saint Denis newspaper tycoon out of his carriage by his tie?”

“Miss Schofield, you make it sound so awful!” He said with a sardonic twist to his lips.

“Not as awful as he’ll make it sound if he decides to write about it…”

Arthur watched her face—while reaching over to correct the reins in her hands: novice riders were so hard on the bit, he really needed to work with her more—trying to determine just how much she suspected that to be Mr. Fellowes’s retaliation, “Nah, he seemed like a prudent, generous sort t’me!”

“You don’t control the major news outlets in a city by being generous, sweetheart. Prudent… maybe. You’re trying to avoid my question. You weren’t robbing him.”

“No, not me.”

“You said something about sending payment. And something about a _library_?”

He laughed, “Just how long were you followin’ us, darlin’?”

“… Does this have anything to do with the letters you keep getting from the Mayor?”

“Well aren’t you just busy bein’ nosey, Miss Catherine!” He grinned at her and hoped she’d leave off.

She smiled back at him, but it didn’t reach her pale eyes, “… It’s one thing to be the strong man for Dutch, Arthur… It’s quite another to be the strong man for a politician… especially one like Henri Lemieux.”  


“I know—”

“—No. You don’t know. That’s the trouble, sweetheart, you _think_ you know, but you don’t. Please tell me why you’re doing this.”

When he didn’t answer, she pressed, “… What does he have over you?”

“You don’ need to worry about that, Catherine, I been doin’ this for twenty—”

“—No, Arthur, you _haven’t_. You’ve avoided these city people and you mistrust them for a _reason_, but now you have me worried you don’t mistrust them _enough_. What is he holding over your head?”

It chafed him that she was probably right, and chafed him that he didn’t see a better way out than the one he was taking. It chafed him worse that he was pretty sure she was trying to wedge her way _in_ after him…

“You go on back to the camp.”

She gave a little laugh—the same one she gave Dutch so often, and it made Arthur feel a little sick inside to be on the receiving end—and shrugged, “Okay, don’t tell me. I’ll go talk to Mr. Lemieux. And Arthur, he’ll see me _right now_. At the _front door._”


	2. "Between Lines"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Modern!AUs are a bit of a hot topic in this fandom right now, but awhile back I was randomly inspired to drabble in one. I have no idea if I'll actually continue it or not...
> 
> [posted first [here](https://mtraki.tumblr.com/post/185631919344/ive-debated-whether-to-post-this-or-not-but-i) ]

It was a slow Wednesday night when the cowboy came in.

She’d never forget it. She’d take the memory to her grave. It was so surreal. That stereotypical scene from all the old westerns spliced into the small, smokey space of the dive bar named The Dandy Bear Saloon: The door opened and in he came, boots thudding, spurs jangling, black hat tipped low over his brow, covering his eyes. Everyone stopped and turned to stare– all five of them, herself included. She swore the old jukebox skipped, Bob Segar’s ‘Beautiful Loser’ (“a perfect lodger–a perfect lodger, a perfect guest”) playing quietly in the corner for the sixth time tonight. It was Terry’s favorite and she was having a hard time with her mom and husband, again.

Immediately, the cowboy saw them staring, feeling the abrupt change in the air, and could sense the antagonism. She’s sure only she could see the briefest hesitation in his stride as he continued toward her where she stood behind the bar.

He’d crossed half the distance with his purposeful, swaggering stride before she noticed the guns. One revolver slung low on his right hip, the other across the left side of his belly in a cavalry draw, rounds in the belt between them. A bandolier across his body and over his right shoulder housed old brass shells for the double-barrel slung over his left shoulder. At the same time, she noticed the smell. That was the other thing she’d never forget: if seeing him had been surreal, it was _smelling _him that made the situation all too real.

He’d smelled like horses, and all things associated with horses, leather, and the inside of the men’s locker room at the gym the week the a/c had been out.

Dick and Roger were watching the cowboy warily, giving her looks she figured were asking if they should call the cops or if she had the situation in hand. There were only five of them. If this guy was a psycho, rolling in here with loaded guns, he could kill them all without having to reload.

But she didn’t think he was a psycho– despite the way he looked, despite the way he _smelled_, there was something very lucid in his steely blue eyes flecked with green when he leaned his elbows on the bar, looking her in the face.

That was the other thing. He looked her immediately in the _face_, deliberately ignoring the generous cleavage provided by a good push-up bra and neglected upper buttons of her blouse.

“Hey Tex,” She grinned at him, quelling her rolling stomach. He stank like he hadn’t bathed in a year.

“Miss.” He returned quietly, his voice cordial, but his expression was controlled.

“You want something to drink?”

The emphatic answer led her to believe that his evening was going perhaps as well as Terry’s, “_Yes_.”

“Great. I’m gonna need you to hand over the iron first, though, partner. Before one of my off-duty cop regulars rolls in and loses his shit…”

“… Loses his what?”

She beckoned, “No, seriously, hand over your guns. You’re scaring everyone.”

Turning his head, he looked at the four others. Dick and Roger stared back evenly. Terry was gathering up her purse and jacket to leave. Oscar had his back to the rest of them again, smoking the last nub of his cigarette over his beer. Obviously none of them were armed. State law allowed licensed concealed carry, and Clark had a pump action shotgun under the bar just in case, but most people in town just didn’t carry. The cowboy looked back her way and drew the off-hand revolver with his left hand, sliding it across the bar, grip toward her with one hand, drawing the other with his right to do the same.

They sounded like real metal, they_ looked real_, and when she reached for one to tuck it under the bar, she noted the _weight_.

“Jesus,” She whispered, “it’s real…”

And loaded.

“Sure it’s real.” He answered quietly, unflustered, still looking her in the eye, though his gaze flicked toward the muzzle of the weapon, as if worried she might turn it on him.

Snatching up the other revolver, she ducked and stowed them under the bar, taking his shotgun– also _very real_– when he handed it over. The weapons all showed signs of use, but nothing very recent, she thought. She wondered what kind of insane convention he’d come from. She wondered how he’d made it down the street without getting stopped by every patrol car.

“Great… So I can get those back to you when you leave, I guess… mister…?”

“… Morgan. Arthur Morgan.” He’d said it like he’d debated saying something else.

“Mister Morgan… Unless you’ll let me call you ‘Arthur’?”

“… Sure.”

“What can I get you to drink, Arthur?”

“Anythin’…”

“Don’t say that.” She grinned, jerking her thumb to the full shelves behind her.

“… Whiskey, then.”

“… You’re killing me, Arthur.” And she indicated the shelf of whiskeys.

“Christ!” He sputtered, staring at it as if it were some incomprehensible thing.

“Want me to…” But she didn’t finish her question. He wasn’t looking at her anymore, he was looking over her shoulder, reading the labels. She watched his lips move ever so slightly as he did so, and the blood ran out of his face. She couldn’t imagine why.

“… You okay?”  
“… I dunno, no more…” Was his very soft confession, voice no longer steady, “… Can y’pour me somethin’? Please…?”

“Sure. You opening a tab–” She reached back for a bottle at random–Jack Daniel’s No 7– and was turning around again when he put two large coins on the bar. She looked at them, then looked him in his pale face and finished, “… What the fuck is this, Arthur?”

“Money…?” He seemed even more genuinely confused than she was, which only made her all the more uneasy, and therefore irritated.

For a moment, she strongly considered throwing him out or calling the cops– or throwing him out AND calling the cops– but then she exhaled slowly out her nose and slid the coins over to inspect them. They were good sized silver coins, one side depicting a seated woman, the other an eagle with the words “UNITED STATES OF AMERICA” across the top and “420 GRAINS. 900 FINE. TRADE DOLLAR” along the bottom. The year for one was 1883, the other was 1875.

The smell was real. The guns were real. Maybe the money was real too? And whereas two dollars in coins wasn’t going to cover what she’d been about to pour him, if they_ were real_, they were probably worth a great deal more.

It was a weird night, and she’d been willing to gamble.

She poured him two fingers and slid the glass over, “I’ll open your tab. Try that, see if you like it at all. You mind if I send some photos of your coins to a friend of mine?”

“… What for?”

“To check their authenticity.”

“Authen– you tellin’ me my money ain’t good here?!”

In her most placating-without-backing-down tone she said, “I’m telling you I don’t know. Try the No. 7.”  
“… Check the authenticity…” He muttered, picking up the glass, “Will it take long?”

Pulling out her phone and setting the whiskey bottle down, she snapped a photo of the coins on the bar, turned them over and snapped another, then sent the images to Paul from the pawn shop two blocks down, who knew more about collector coins than she did.

“Nope.”

“… Is that a camera?” He wanted to know before shooting the whiskey. Then he frowned at the glass. “… What kinda…?”

“Sure.” Shrugging she said, “You don’t like Jack? I got Jim, Jameson, Makers, Crown, Johnnie, Wild Turkey… I could probably find some Seagrams for you somewhere…”

She went through the whole shelf without finding something he liked. Meanwhile Paul was texting back that if the coins were legit, they were in fact worth good money, and that he knew a guy who could take a look at them for her. Curious, she poured the cowboy two fingers of moonshine– against her better judgement, really, and he announced that it tasted like something he was used to.

“I keep pouring you that, Arthur, it’s gonna be a short night for you and a long one for me.”  
“Ah…” He waved off her concern, but admitted he’d like to try the Jim Bean again.

She recognized he was drunk when he pointed at her arm and said, “… What’s all over yer skin…?”

“You mean my tattoos?”

“‘Tattoos’?” He echoed, as if tasting the shape of the word, trying to find out if he liked it or not, “… So yer a sailor?”

“What?”

“A criminal?”

“Excuse you?”

“Well you ain’t a princess…” And he grinned at her.

It was the nicest thing anybody had ever said to her, really.

“Only sailors, criminals, an’ royals– or folk tryin’ t’copy royals have tattoos, I hear tell…” He explained.

She leaned on her elbows, running her fingers along the dark, twisting lines of ink on her forearm, “Well, Arthur, you heard wrong. Lots of people have tattoos. You probably passed three parlors on the way here.”  
“… Strange town you got here…” He confessed, brow furrowing as he fiddled with his glass.

“I guess. Usually it’s pretty boring,” She raised her hand in a wave as Oscar stumbled out into the night, mumbling about his ride.

“Sure.”

The drinks had relaxed him and put some color back in his face, but she couldn’t help but think she was pouring whiskey for a deeply traumatized man, and that she ought to maybe be calling an ambulance or a police car instead.

“Think we better call it a night,” Roger said, climbing to his feet along with Dick.

Standing back upright, she went for the register, “I’ll close out your tab then.”

They shuffled out their payment– Roger always paid with Visa, Dick always paid cash– and Roger kept his eye on Arthur who paid him no mind while Dick leaned in toward her, eyes wide and serious.

“You gonna be okay here, Cat?”

She smiled and patted his arm with her other hand while taking his cash. They were nice men, both of them with kids not too much younger than herself. While they often came here together to get away from the noise of their respective houses, they still insisted on trying to quietly look after her. Whether that was for sentimental reasons, or just to preserve the sanctity of their bar, she didn’t dare say for sure.

“What was that li’l thing…?” The cowboy asked her after the old regulars had left, leaving her alone with him at the bar.

“What do you mean?”

“That mean-faced feller gave you a thing… Din’t look like no money…”

“You mean his credit card?”

Waving his hand at her, Arthur pushed his glass forward, “… Credit from a bank? With a card? Can you buy drinks wit’ that?”

“Credit from a lending company– Wait, okay… seriously.” She laughed at herself, “Arthur, what’s your deal?”

“Whad’ya mean?”

“It’s a good act, _partner_, but it’s gotten a little stale. I’m about to close up the bar, so you’ll have to _mosey _on somewhere else for the night…”

“… Weren’t aware I was puttin’ on…” He sighed and shook his head, “…Y’know a place… a… a hotel or someplace?”

“Sure. Two or three right around here, closer to the freeway.”

“… Freeway?”

“This is what I’m talking about Arthur,” She rolled her eyes, “You know what a freeway is. Do you have some modern money to close out your tab? I can take anything except a check…”

Frustration started to crease his brow, “Th’hell you mean ‘modern money’?”

“Money from _this _century, cowboy.”

His finger jabbed the bar wood with a thud by where she’d left the trade dollar coins, “These _is _from this century!”

Looking him in the eye, she was aware once again of the lucidity in them. He was drunk, not crazy. Or if he was crazy, it was a deep-seated crazy he’d operated all his life with. He also thoroughly believed in the veracity of his words.

“… Arthur, no hotel is going to accept this money. I _can’t_ put this money in the register.”

“Why the hell not?!”

“Because it’s over a hundred years old.”

“What the hell is wrong wit’– What are you playin’ at?!” His fingers scrambled a minute before he picked up one of the coins to try and read the date, squinting at it in the light and his drunkenness, “… Th-this says ‘1883’. It’s only seven years old!”

“…Okay.” She said simply, blinking at him. “Forget the tab. I’m closing.”

He watched her at the register as she closed out the log, swiping her own credit card to zero out the balance. Clark was going to give her hell about it, but it was just easier.

She’d gambled and it was only right she paid for her losses.

Arthur was still watching her as she started to wipe down the counter for the final time of the night, so she looked at him. “You need to go.”

“… Right. Sure. Thank you… for the drinks…” Unsteadily, he pushed away from the counter, turned around… and couldn’t seem to find the door again. “Um…”

“Oh boy… Come on.”

She walked him out, and he went docilely enough. The Dandy Bear opened out into the alley, and he still seemed lost, so she pointed him toward the main street and stood there to watch and make sure he left.

He made it to the corner, almost swaggered into oncoming traffic, stumbled back and fell on his ass. Cursing to herself, she hurried over to make sure he wasn’t hurt and to pull him to his feet. She really _should _have called the cops earlier…

“Are you hurt?”

Slowly, in ratcheting movements of his neck, the cowboy looked at her, though his haunted blue eyes seemed to look past her. He looked at the headlights of the next car coming through, at the buildings towering high above, and then finally at her again. “… My Lord…” He murmured gravely, “… This is Hell. I’m in _Hell_…”

“Not quite…” She sighed. “Come on. Stand up.”

After getting him up, he took hold of both of her arms, his hands _careful_, as if he couldn’t trust his own strength, “… Get me outta here, miss.”

She knew that sentiment. She knew that in her _bones_. In the depths of whatever _soul _she might have.

_Get me outta here…_

* * *

That was how he ended up in her apartment, she figured.

It was a weird night. She couldn’t explain her logic to herself, it just felt like something she needed to do. It just felt _right _that she bring this crazy man home and dump him in her bathroom. Her family always said she had a self-destructive streak.

He stared open-mouthed at the tile and porcelain, doing a bit of a double-take in the mirror on the wall.

“Get yourself washed up. I’ll get you a towel.” She instructed.

“… What?”

“Please take a goddamn shower so you don’t make my place smell like death warmed over?”

“… Miss I…” He gestured at the room, then at her, “…I dunno what yer… tellin’ me…”

“…Okay.” She replied in an even tone, “Let’s take this slow, then… You need to wash. So I’m going to let you use my shower. Over there.” She indicated the shower stall with the curtain pulled aside, “The plumbing is pretty decent in this building, thank God. So see this? This turns the water on…”

She demonstrated, and obediently, water started coming out of the shower head. Arthur stared at it, then asked, “… Somebody pouring…?”

“What? No. It’s the plumbing… The pipes in the walls… Is this seriously a conversation– Nevermind. No. Nobody is pouring. Look, you can control the temperature of the water that comes out. This way for hot… This way for cold. To turn it off, you just push it back in like this.”

“… It’s amazin’!”

“… Sure, cowboy. Think you can handle that?”

“Sure, I guess…”

“Great. I’ll find you a bar of soap and a washcloth because I don’t have the energy to try and explain shower gel…”

“… ‘Shower ge’–”

“Exactly. What about shampoo?”

His blank look told her all she needed to know, “… It’s soap for your hair. Comes in a small bottle. I’ll bring you some. Put it in your hand, massage it into your scalp, rinse it out. You won’t need a lot.”

She paused, “… You do know how to use soap, right?”

He scowled at her, “Of _course _I know how to use soap, what do you take me for?”

“… At this point, _I have no idea_…”

He shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. She rubbed her hands together, “… Anyway, I’ll go get that stuff…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got questions? Want to talk about it? Want to suggest or request a prompt? [Here's your mic! ](https://mtraki.tumblr.com/ask)

**Author's Note:**

> Got questions? Want to talk about it? Want to suggest or request a prompt? [Here's your mic! ](https://mtraki.tumblr.com/ask)


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